


Flowers and Don McLean

by doctor__idiot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Flowers, Fluff, Growing Old Together, M/M, Music, Post-Series, Top Sam, a.k.a. what gives me life, partly outsider POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 06:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10610961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: “You were right,” is the first thing Dean says when he lets himself into the house, “I don’t know shit about flowers.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a birthday present for [ilostmyshoe-79](http://ilostmyshoe-79.tumblr.com/). I had a blast. Honestly, I really enjoyed writing this one.
> 
> Disclaimer: As always, nothing's mine except the idea.

As the owner of the only flower shop in town, sitting right across from the post office, Penny knows everyone that walks in or by and everything that is going on.

Or rather, she used to. 

It’s been a year on the dot now that the two young men – well, young by her standards – moved in down the block from her shop, and after all this time, she still hasn’t managed to get a read on them.

They are different than the other people in town. For one, they were strangers when they came and they’ve still got that outsider status among most of the other townsfolk. That’s just the way it is around here.

Most people pay them no mind – leave alone and be left alone – but Penny’s always been rather nosy. It’s not like she’s got a lot of alternatives. The flower shop is the only thing keeping her busy, and even on good days, it is far from crowded.

She remembers how the two men arrived. They pulled up in their sleek, black car, the sort that makes people lock their doors and peep out the window. The men were no different, an extension of their car, tall and handsome but with a look in their eyes that Penny only knows from way back when. They were the eyes of soldiers that had seen too much, had too many secrets to keep. They had a dark energy around them and she’s heard people tell their kids to stay away from them.

The house they moved into had been empty for a while before that, a real fixer-upper. Penny has to admit, they’ve managed to make it look almost presentable.

They are not the kind of people that frequent flower shops, so she’s never actually talked to them. She’s just seen them around. Heard they were brothers but they look nothing alike and she’s always assumed that it’s a cover for … an alternative lifestyle. It’s not her place to judge what they choose to reveal and what to keep hidden.

The atmosphere around them and around the other people in town has relaxed over the course of the year since they moved in, once it became clear that they aren’t dangerous, just a little odd. Odd and too secretive for Penny’s liking, but that’s mainly because she is bored out of her mind most days.

It’s been a slow morning in the shop and she is about to head out to the bakery around the corner to get lunch when the bell above the door chimes as someone enters.

Penny prides herself on not being easily knocked off-course but even she falters for a moment when she looks up and it’s one of the men she is still so curious about. It’s the shorter one – truly a relative description –, the one with the short hair and the crease between his eyebrows. She can’t remember ever having seeing him up close.

His eyes don’t look haunted to her now, they’re clear, awake, and startlingly green. He looks around, unsure and thoroughly out of place.

“Can I help you?” she asks like she always does and his head snaps around to her as if he’s only noticing her now.

“Yes,” he says curtly but doesn’t elaborate. His voice is deeper than she expected but pleasant.

“Are you looking for something in particular?”

He nods. “Flowers.”

She smiles. “You’ve certainly come to the right place.”

His face scrunches up in a way that makes him look very young, although she estimates him to be in his early forties. It’s hard to tell sometimes and the older she gets, the harder it becomes. Young people all look the same. _Young_.

He laughs then, a brief, breathy thing. Self-conscious in a way that she wouldn’t have expected from a man this weathered and attractive.

“I gotta be honest,” he says, still in that deep baritone, “I don’t have the first clue about…” He makes a vague gesture, encompassing the expanse of her small shop.

He turns to her and smiles as if he’s just had an idea. “What kind of flowers would _you_ like?” he asks.

He looks even younger then, boyish and excited and it’s so dazzling she almost takes a step back. He reminds her of her grandson in that moment but Jack’s twelve, still an actual boy and not a grown man.

She chuckles, can’t help herself. He’s so clearly out of his depth that she wonders who the flowers are for. She’s got an inkling but she can only assume. In any case, she goes ahead and picks out flowers trying to think of what kind her own husband would have liked.

She ends up with an assortment of white daisies, yellow gerberas, and a few orange roses, bundling them together with some greens.

She tilts her head at the man who is rocking on the balls of his feet, hands in his jeans pockets. “These okay?”

He nods enthusiastically and she has to suppress a snicker because he looks uncomfortable enough that she is sure he would accept anything she held his way. She wraps the bouquet in paper and rings him up.

He quietly says, “Thank you,” looking down at the flowers as he hands her a generous tip but his smile seems genuine when his eyes flicker up at her after all.

She can’t hold back any longer, she has to ask. “Anniversary?”

He pales a little and her heart immediately sinks. But then he recovers and his mouth curls back around that smile, the genuine one that makes her go slightly weak in the knees. She tells herself her time’s over, she’s out of the game. Especially with this man.

“Yeah,” he says, “Something like that.”

~

“You were right,” is the first thing Dean says when he lets himself into the house, “I don’t know shit about flowers.”

Sam doesn’t look up from his book. “Thank you for admitting it.”

Dean is silent then and _that_ does make Sam look up. He stops dead at the sight of his brother, standing framed by the door arch of the open-plan kitchen, still wearing his shoes. He is holding a bouquet of flowers. It’s still wrapped in paper, so Sam can’t see the entirety of it but those are _definitely_ flowers.

Dean brought flowers. Dean brought _him_ flowers.

“Is this because of what I said about the yard?” he asks, “Because I was talking about planting. Those are—”

Dean’s brows narrow. “Sam, I may be clueless about flowers but I’m not an imbecile. These aren’t for the yard, I just…”

Sam’s too dumb-founded to say anything other than, “What?”

He knows what he’s seeing and he’s pretty sure – say, ninety-five percent – that it’s real but his brain refuses to process the fact that Dean, Sam’s _brother_ Dean, is standing in their kitchen with a giant bouquet of flowers.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dean says, jolting Sam out of his little trance, “Will you just take them?”

Sam moves then. He gets up, leaving his book on the table without marking the page, and accepts the flowers from Dean who is practically thrusting them at Sam. He unwraps the paper and turns the bouquet over in his hands. It’s simple, yet beautiful.

“I don’t think we’ve got any vases,” he says because it’s the only thing _to_ say.

Dean makes a grunting noise. “And here I thought we’d been completely domesticated.”

Sam snorts, taking in Dean’s uncertain face. There’s a brief moment where he feels like he should tease Dean about it, be the little brother whose job it is to give his big brother shit for things like this. But he realizes he doesn’t want to do that.

He grabs a measuring cup from the cupboard above the kitchen counter and fills it with water. It’s going to have to do until he can buy something nicer to put the flowers in.

“Did I miss a birthday?” he asks suddenly, glancing at the calendar next to the fridge out of habit. It’s June. He scowls. Their mother’s birthday was in June but he doesn’t remember which day. “Mom’s birthday?”

“Since when do we celebrate mom’s birthday?” Dean sounds honestly taken aback. 

Sam shrugs. “Since when do you buy me flowers?”

Dean’s mouth opens but after a moment of nothing coming out of it, he closes it again. He sighs, then says, “Since now, I guess. I thought… I thought you might like them.”

“I do,” Sam says without hesitation. “It’s just … new, is all.”

Dean nods but he looks a little forlorn, as if he is second-guessing his purchase and Sam can’t have that. His hands settle on Dean’s hips and when Dean jumps slightly, he slides them around Dean’s back and dips his chin down for a kiss. He makes it last, unhurried and almost sweet, splaying his palms flat across the small of his brother’s back.

Dean grumbles, “’s just some flowers, no need to go all girly on me,” but he cups his hand around the back of Sam’s neck, twirling Sam’s hair around his index finger. 

Sam kisses him again, still just as slow but with a little more intent, licking and nibbling along Dean’s bottom lip. Dean makes a small noise of content and Sam squeezes him briefly before pulling back. Dean blinks up at him, not moving, just breathing. His face is open, vulnerable in a way he rarely is, kissed-looking mouth and slightly dazed eyes.

“I love you,” Sam says because it’s the first thing that comes to his mind.

Predictably, Dean groans. “Ah shit,” he gripes, twisting out of Sam’s hold, “I’m never getting you anything ever again if it makes you this sappy.”

“It’s not sappy if it’s true.”

“It’s still sappy.”

Sam grins. “Well, you got me flowers. You can endure me being sappy about it.” He tugs Dean back in, ignoring his wriggling, and kisses him again. 

Dean harrumphs. “Never making that mistake again.”

Sam ignores him. “Thank you for the flowers.”

“Yeah, whatever, you’re fucking welcome.”

Sam pulls away then, picks the flowers back up. He unravels the string that’s wound around them, and grabs a pair of scissors. He cuts the stems under the running water and returns them to the measuring cup. He frowns. They really should have gotten vases when they moved in.

To be fair, those aren’t exactly a priority for two guys who roll up with barely three duffel bags of belongings between them.

“Hey,” Dean says suddenly and reaches past Sam to where Sam’s iPod is plugged into the stereo and he flicks through the songs until he picks one and hits play.

The first line of lyrics make Sam’s mouth curl with amusement. “You don’t like that song,” he says.

“I like it fine,” Dean shrugs and Sam feels rather than sees the movement behind him, “I just think it’s a little overrated.”

Sam huffs, “Blasphemy,” and turns around then, leaning back against the kitchen counter. He finds Dean smirking at him. “What is it?”

Dean shrugs again, says nothing. He hums along to the song that’s playing, bobbing his head to the rhythm.

“No, really, what—” Sam cuts himself off as realization dawns. His eyes cut to the calendar again. A memory flashes, himself placing his signature on a piece of paper that officially lists Sam and Dean Winchester as proud homeowners of 34 Willow Avenue, and he remembers the date on the document now.

Dean’s humming has turned into off-key singing. “ _Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry._ ”

“Seriously?” Sam laughs. “You remembered our anniversary of moving here and you call _me_ a sap?”

Dean doesn’t answer, just clicks his tongue and continues singing, all while still tapping his head from side to side. “ _This will be the day that I die._ ”

“Hey.” Sam nudges him. “Shut up.”

The music picks up then and Dean starts bouncing on the spot, shimmying his hips a little. “ _Did you write the book of love and do you have faith in God above?_ ”

It’s not that Dean doesn’t have a good voice for singing, he does, it’s just that he couldn’t find the right key if it kicked him in the face, so Sam dashes forward, catching Dean off-guard and around the waist, pressing in and up against him while his other hand angles Dean’s chin just right so Sam can kiss him and shut him up effectively. 

In between kisses, Dean mutters, “ _Well, I know that you’re in love with him_ ,” speaking the words rather than singing them and Sam can’t stop himself from laughing out loud then.

“You know, for someone who claims they think the song’s overrated, you sure know your lyrics.”

Dean scrunches up his nose in defense, the corner of his mouth curling. “I’m just awesome like that.”

Sam chuckles and turns them around, walking Dean back against the counter. He slots his palms around the back of Dean’s thighs and lifts him, kissing him briefly before trailing his mouth wetly down Dean’s neck to his collarbone.

Dean gives a small gasp of surprise as Sam hoists him onto the counter, his legs clamping down on Sam’s sides on instinct, and his hand fists in Sam’s hair.

“Hell, what’s gotten into you?” he asks. “Is this because of the flowers?”

Sam huffs a laugh. “Yeah, sure, it’s because of the flowers.”

Dean’s arms come around his shoulders, his ankles crossed behind Sam’s back, and he pulls Sam back up into a kiss and there’s undeniable intent in this one.

Dean must feel Sam’s smile against his own lips because he asks, “What?”

“Nothing. I’ve just never fucked anyone to Don McLean before.”

He tightens his fingers around Dean’s thighs and Dean blinks, his pupils expanding, and he quickly licks his lips before his says, voice slightly unsteady, “There’s a first time for everything.”

They take it into the bedroom then, setting a new record shedding their clothes. Sam’s got Dean spread out on their broad mattress, kissing all the way down to his navel, and soon he’s slowly, wetly sinking into him and as Dean’s eyes roll into the back of his head, back arching, Sam asks, like he always does, “Okay?”

Dean hums an affirmative and then just keeps humming. He purses his lips, mouthing, “ _Bye bye, Miss American Pie…_ ”

Despite the tight clench around his cock, Dean’s sweat-slick skin against his, and the tight knot of heat in his belly, Sam laughs. “Christ, shut up.”

Dean grins with his eyes closed. “Make me.”


End file.
